“I am,” admitted Harriet frankly.
“He’s a regular adventure all in himself—­a
whole series of adventures.”

“I’ve never been partial to serials,”
said Elizabeth.

“Well, I should think one would be a relief
after a whole winter of heavy tragedy,” retorted
Harriet.

“What do you mean?” asked Elizabeth.

“Oh, I mean Harold, of course,” said Harriet.
“He’s gone around all winter with a grouch
and a face a mile long. What’s the matter
with him anyway?”

“I don’t know,” sighed Elizabeth.
“I’m afraid he’s working too hard.”

Harriet giggled.

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” she exclaimed.
“You know perfectly well that Harold Bince
will never work himself to death.”

“Well, he is working hard, Harriet. Father
says so. And he’s worrying about the business,
too. He’s trying so hard to make good.”

“I will admit that he has stuck to his job more
faithfully than anybody expected him to.”

Elizabeth turned slowly upon her friend, “You
don’t like Harold,” she said; “why
is it?”

Harriet shook her head.

“I do like him, Elizabeth, for your sake.
I suppose the trouble is that I realize that he is
not good enough for you. I have known him all
my life, and even as a little child he was never sincere.
Possibly he has changed now. I hope so.
And then again I know as well as you do that you are
not in love with him.”

“How perfectly ridiculous!” cried Elizabeth.
“Do you suppose that I would marry a man whom
I didn’t love?”

“You haven’t the remotest idea what love
is. You’ve never been in love.”

“Have you?” asked Elizabeth.

“No,” replied Harriet, “I haven’t,
but I know the symptoms and you certainly haven’t
got one of them. Whenever Harold isn’t going
to be up for dinner or for the evening you’re
always relieved. Possibly you don’t realize
it yourself, but you show it to any one who knows you.”

“Well, I do love him,” insisted Elizabeth,
“and I intend to marry him. I never had
any patience with this silly, love-sick business that
requires people to pine away when they are not together
and bore everybody else to death when they were.”

“All of which proves,” said Harriet, “that
you haven’t been stung yet, and I sincerely
hope that you may never be unless it happens before
you marry Harold.”

CHAPTER XIV.

Inagain—­outagain.

Jimmy Torrance was out of a job a week this time,
and once more he was indebted to the Lizard for a
position, the latter knowing a politician who was
heavily interested in a dairy company, with the result
that Jimmy presently found himself driving a milk-wagon.
Jimmy’s route was on the north side, which he
regretted, as it was in the district where a number
of the friends of his former life resided. His
delivery schedule, however, and the fact that his
point of contact with the homes of his customers was
at the back door relieved him of any considerable
apprehension of being discovered by an acquaintance.